Pens and Pages

I turn out the lights And he turns on the radio, And it's almost like a routine The way he approaches the bed And I approach him. We smile at each other With other people On our minds. We start with a gentle peck And then probably a kiss Of feelings close to disgust. He kisses my scars Scars that remind me of wounds- Wounds that he wasn't a part of. It isn't love And we both are in pain, And we make love, A good night's sleep is preordained. I turn out the lights Inside my head as well. "Oh, stop thinking." He turns on the radio And a million thoughts Approach his mind. Tomorrow, We shall not remember each other for I have someone else to go to And he has someone else in his mind. But we'll smile at each other- Smile close to disgust. And we'll call it love When naked bodies meet Knowing not, That love it is not. For our naked souls await To be revealed And a good conversation Was our sole need.

Writers don't move on. They make love with solitude, They take sorrow in their arms. They run their fingers down grief's spine. They touch words gently And force themselves on a river of tears. They let masochism win; so when they bleed, It's Utopia for them. Writers don't move on. They stumble on memories. They recall something that was eons ago. They embrace regrets And make love with retrospection. And when they do, They make memories their concubine, And then they sleep on past's lap, Because they're writers And writers don't move on...

She tossed and turned in her bed. Tears, there were, flowing from her tiny eyes, which he had lovingly called almond-like. She never understood how can someone’s eyes look like almonds, but leaving all logic behind, she loved anything he would call her. He wasn't anywhere near to call her anything anymore. Since the last three months, he was gone. “’Lost’ is the word”, she would explain. Indeed, he was lost; she lost him to the hands of time and fate, to the hands of love and hate. She had wailed, begged him to stop. He didn't stop that day, nor did he look back as he walked out with his suitcase and backpack. She had called his name out, so loud that even her neighbours came out of their houses. But he didn't for once turn around, not even to bid his final adieu. “Probably he didn't hear me, he has always been absent-minded in his own train of thoughts”, she had reasoned herself like a dutiful wife. Three months have passed since she...

Let's play with fire tonight set our dreams on flight relive all the memories all that's gone out of sight Lets play with fire tonight ditch the lull of the night make new memories let the lost love ignite Let's play with fire tonight do all the things that incite mess about in those memories memories of that amorous night Let's play with fire tonight for we know it will burn bright pieces of the torn memories and nothing will ever be alright

“Are you a lesbian?” A friend of mine once asked me mockingly when we were discussing about my aversion from some (“some” not “all”) kind of men. “No. But does it matter?” I asked her scornfully. No, I wasn’t bothered that I was asked a question about my sexuality. But what I didn’t understand was that is being a lesbian a matter to be jeered about? What if I was one? Wouldn’t I be hurt and embarrassed that my sexuality was just mocked at? Why are the words “gay” or “lesbian” used as slangs? Another incident, that took place a couple of years back, was when I was teasing two girl friends of mine, accusing them of having an affair. I considered it as normal as teasing a guy and a girl. One of them found it so disrespectful that she, instead of simply denying the fact, chided that she isn’t of such “third class” standard. I later discussed the small argument that we had, with her, trying to make my point that being a lesbian or a transgender doesn’t define anyone’s cla...

We pretend so perfectly that nothing happened, but hell yes, it was a wild night.. and it's fun to see nobody knew.. even the stars didn't see it too.. and in the woods we stayed till late.. wrapped in your arms, 'twas a date.. and yes, it was that wild night.. and we don't know each other today.. and the moon pretends he didn't hear.. the sounds of pleasure that were made.. showering those kisses of lust.. and we pretend we know not what love is,.. and the smell of the flowers that bloomed that night reminds me so much of you tonight but all I know is, it wasn't love.. all it was, just another wild night... ;-)